Yearnings
by lembas7
Summary: A short, tearjerker ficlet for anyone who ever tried to get into Narnia . . .
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: Narnia is not mine. 

Yearnings

I put the book down, and glance at the doors. They are slightly open, welcoming, the darkness behind evident in the strip of shadows where the two doors should be joined, touching, locking me out. But they are not - there is a gap there, an opening. 

It is not a wardrobe. I know that my closet cannot lead me to Narnia. But in that moment, I feel the shivery thrill of hope welling up from my very bones. It could be - for the only limits in this world are those we place on ourselves. 

I hesitate, wanting to stand, wanting to go to the doors, open them - and . . . And what? Why, if Peter and Susan were too old to find Narnia on their own - if all eventually grew too old to return, then certainly I am too old to even discover the wonders they found. But I am young yet - very young. 

But the hope is building, into a unescapable joy, and I feel it deep within me, undeniable, and it urges me to my feet. I am not wearing shoes - but no matter. In Narnia, it makes no difference. 

My bare feet make no sound on the floor as I cross silently to the wooden doors. I slip my fingers within that opening, delving into the shadows, and I jerk the doors open, excitement coursing through my veins. Light spills into the closet and I blink. 

I bend over - so tall that the upper shelf, rather than the racks of clothes, are on eye level. And I push through the layers of jeans, the darkened cotton shirts, reaching out, reaching beyond, pushing my hand in front of me, into - 

My fingers fetch up against a solid white wall. My head, following through, is pressed upon by the layers of clothes as I stare at the painted barrier in front of me. 

And I curse my folly. Too old - I knew, almost from the moment that I opened the doors I could see glimpses of the wall, peeking out at me from between hangers and garments. What did I think - that at my age, I could ever see magic and wonder? But I'm only eighteen, I tell myself. Not so old. 

Yet I feel ancient as I stare at the wall, and know that the way is closed to me. And the hope that I refused to let die with my first tantalizing glimpse of the wall twists inside me, and I feel ill. No - the way is shut, and I cannot enter. I feel so very, very old. But I'm only eighteen. 

I take a deep breath, pounding on the wall, and remember seeing this wall, this room, this very house being built, a decade and more ago. I am too old, those memories proclaim me ancient. 

I push backward, and the clothes gently sway on their hangers. No evidence now that I ever tried to enter Narnia - no witnesses - no one knows of this venture but myself, and my small dog who is lying on my bed, staring at me, with his sad brown eyes. And I feel tears welling up from the same font that brought hope before. Narnia is lost to me - young as I am, yet too old for magic. 


	2. Chapter 2

It's been months now.

I've gotten accepted, gotten packed and unpacked. Moved into a new world, with new friends, new experiences. It's been a journey through the wardrobe in every sense but the most literal.

And another birthday has distanced the broken dream from me.

Summer rolled into fall, descending gently into winter. Snow and ice, covering my new world in magical misery. College.

It has a white witch – the professor that teaches the intro biology course. My very own helpful Beavers have assisted my journey – thank Aslan for guidance counselors and advisors.

The semester has rolled over, winter break proving to be just that – a victory in the battle against the ice and snow.

But there is one thing that has not changed, since I was first compelled to try to take a journey of my own.

There is a closet in my dorm room.

There are three, actually.

One hides drawers, shelves cluttered with odd-ends of toothpaste and pillowcases, forks liberated from the dining hall and a rarely-used blow-dryer.

The second is a sink-closet, adjoining my room with the one next to it. The door is somewhat slimmer than the rest, and the only one with a lock.

It's the last door, the true closet, which holds my attention.

I've seen it bare and have been all over it – climbing to reach the shelves, poking and twisting ever farther back to hang up that just-cleaned sweatshirt, reaching for that particular pair of jeans.

So – I know those walls well. Have even hit my head on them once or twice. They're off-white, and somehow harder than the sheetrocked walls at home, but much thinner. The barriers between the worlds seem worn. Almost as if . . .

And it always surprises me, every time I open the door, how deep the closet really is. Outward appearances are startlingly deceiving.

But I don't push my way through the hanging clothes. I have no need to, now.

Perhaps it's because I feel I've already embarked on my quest, set my feet on destiny's path. A cynic would say I've lost my innocence, my naïve belief in magick and fairytales.

I don't think so.

A sense of triumph fills me, each time I glance secretively at the door. Perhaps it's because, now, I have no need to open it, push my way to the back and pop out into a realm of beauty and magick. In a way, I already have. I don't need to see to know, to feel in my heart that Narnia is no farther away that my own closet, the distance between only as thin as a narrow wooden door.

I have found the true key to entering Narnia, and like all others, had to do it on my own. And what I have learned is this: Believing is seeing, never the other way around.

It took time, and wisdom I would have hesitated to credit myself with a year ago. Perhaps that which once barred my entrance - age - shall now show me the way. All I truly know is this - the battle unfought is the only battle ever lost. One need not battle thyself, for in the end, all that holds us to this earth, and to each other. We will make our own Narnia of Earth.


End file.
